


Great and Unfortunate Delicate Things

by TheBoneWitch



Category: Spartacus Series (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Birds, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Gnaus is a piece of shit, Healing, Hurt Pietros, Hurt/Comfort, LGBTQ, M/M, Past Abuse, Past Domestic Violence, Pietros has birds, Protective Barca, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:48:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23306317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBoneWitch/pseuds/TheBoneWitch
Summary: Modern AUIn the silence of his truck, Pietros had fifteen undisrupted minutes to think about how crazy his night was turning. Fifteen minutes of laughing and panicking on how horrible an idea this was, and fifteen minutes to revel in the fact that Gnaeus was wrong, people did care about him, even the people he hardly knew.He, of course, checked his mirrors obsessively to make sure the black bike was following him. It was shockingly quiet, the motorcycle, lethal-looking and sharp but softer than he thought possible for a bike.Just like Barca, he supposed.
Relationships: Barca/Pietros
Comments: 19
Kudos: 29





	1. Part one

**Author's Note:**

> For those who have watched the show, I know that Barca is a bit of an asshole in the show. I know. But when I first watched the show, in the fevered nonsense of post-operation drugs, I LOVED how soft and gentle he was with Pietros, and I'm writing about that embodiment of him. Is it a fractional part of his canon personality? Yes. Is it almost an entirely made-up character who is just equivocally self-righteous? Yes. Pietros is still the sweetest boy (man) to ever live.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who have watched the show, I know that Barca is a bit of an asshole in the show. I know. But when I first watched the show, in the fevered nonsense of post-operation drugs, I LOVED how soft and gentle he was with Pietros, and I'm writing about that embodiment of him. Is it a fractional part of his canon personality? Yes. Is it almost an entirely made-up character who is just equivocally self-righteous? Yes. Pietros is still the sweetest boy (man) to ever live.  
> Disclaimers:  
> 1\. I don't have pet birds, I don't know how parakeets act and I just went off behavior I have seen in videos  
> 2\. I am not Muslim, and I will not pretend to be. I would have made Pietros more religious if I felt confident in representing the religion as respectfully as I could, and I wasn't ready to try my hand and accidentally be hurtful. If I fucked it up, PLEASE tell me, I'll fix it.  
> 3\. I also don't know how to fight, big shocker. Me, a little white girl who has spent most of her life in a wheelchair. Astounding, I know. I googled it, and what I learned during a five-minute youtube clip is relayed in my writing.

When Mira told him to take self-defense classes, Pietros thought she was joking. But now, as he stood in a line between Mira and Naevia, he concluded that it was, in fact, happening, and no one was laughing. 

The two girls were a bit bias because both of their boyfriends worked in the surprisingly well-lit studio, but Pietros was thankful to have them there because he knew they could take private lessons whenever they wanted for free but paid for the class to be with him.

For the first ten years of his life, he lived in the less polished neighborhoods of Cairo, and you can't go to public school without learning how to throw a punch, but he hadn't been in a physical fight since he moved to America with his parents, almost twelve years ago. When he told Mira this, she shrugged it off and said that while he could fend off a preteen with his punches, he couldn't take on anyone else.

He had pretended to be stung at the moment, but she was probably right.

Three instructors stood in front of the class of fifteen, only two of them were familiar.

The high, street-facing windows slatted in the mid-October sun, highlighting the sheer power of the men up front. Spartacus' closely sheered head was higher than Crixus', both men scanning the students until they found their girlfriends, and then smiled at them. Pietros would have rolled his eyes if it hadn't made him smile too. They were all so in love; he couldn't help but feel happy for them. But it was still gross.

The third man stood on Crixus' left, towering over him. Pietros only cast a perfunctory glance over the enormous man before turning back to a speaking Spartacus. The man unknown was tall and broad and tan; long black dreadlocks piled into a bun on the back of his head. Spartacus introduced himself and Crixus as instructors and the third man, Barca, as a martial arts teacher who was helping today because Agron was 'out sick'. 'Out sick' was code for 'meeting his boyfriend's parents tonight, and he had to take all day to mentally prepare for it.' Pietros smiled to himself, knowing that he'd get a phone call in the morning about how  _ exactly  _ the night went from Nasir.

The talk Spartacus gave was short and inspiring, congratulating the students on choosing to learn to protect themselves. Spartacus has always been good at inspiring speeches, and from the spark in Mira's eyes, Pietros could tell that he wasn't the only one appreciating the words. Except, maybe he enjoyed them a  _ little _ less than her. Pietros doubted that anyone could get as riled up from Spartacus talking as Mira could.

"Mira, Navia, Pietros, could you come up for a demonstration?" Spartacus pulled Pietros' thoughts away from how the room was simple, yet it still looked nice, especially considering the place was run by a bunch of rowdy guys in their mid-twenties.

This is what Pietros had been dreading when Mira suggested the class, that he could have to actually  _ participate. _

Naturally, a slightly mischievous Mira was paired with Spartacus, Naevia went with Crixus, leaving Pietros standing next to Barca. He was a scarce three inches shorter than him, but it didn't stop him from feeling  _ small. _

The class was predominantly women of all ages, and Spartacus catered to that fact, keeping his voice level and confident, giving them every reason to believe that this was a safe environment. It was sort of an inappropriate time to understand a little bit more as to why Mira had crashed head over heels for him so quickly, but it happened nonetheless.

"Mira, give me your hand," her wrist was so small in his grasp it scared Pietros a little bit. He suddenly became aware of how powerful the instructors were, and how close he was standing to Barca.

"The chances of you being stronger than your attacker are little, so you have to be smarter," Spartacus glanced across the room, fingers still looped around Mira's thin wrist. "I have your wrist; I have no intention of letting go," he clamped down on her, severe brown eyes locked with Mira's. "With your free hand, grab your other hand," Mira followed his instructions, "Then raise your elbow up as high as you can, the arm that he's holding,"

The fact that he referred to the hypothetical attacker as a male didn't register as wrong in any mind. From the serious look on everyone's face in the studio, Pietros was sure that all of them were here because of a man.

Pietros was no exception to his own his own observation.

"Lifting your elbow up forces him to lose some of his grip, then you twist away," Mira did it flawlessly, twisting away from her boyfriend when his hold was weakened. "Perfect," he murmured.

"And now you run. You run, and you don't stop until you're safe, and it wouldn't hurt to scream the whole time you're running. It might not attract someone to come save you, but it makes everyone look your way, you have the attention on you so he can't do it again, not without getting caught,"

"Naevia, you try," Spartacus nodded to the feisty girl. Her life hadn't been sunshine and rainbows for a stretch before she met Crixus, and the slight crease of her boyfriend's brows and tightening of his lips told Pietros that he didn't even want to  _ pretend  _ to hurt her. Naevia pulled through the movements without a hitch.

"Pietros," Spartacus nodded to him.

Repressing a sigh, he turned to face Barca, meeting his somber brown eyes for a second, just long enough to smile politely.

Gnaeus' hands weren't this rough the last time he had grabbed Pietros. His pale hand hadn't been quite as big as the tan one now wrapped around Pietros' wrist, a size difference that wasn't as extreme as Mira's or Naevia's, but noticeable.

Gnaeus never smelled like laundry detergent and leather, and he certainly hadn't kept a respectable distance between them.

Pietros chanted all of this in his head while Barca held onto his arm, hardly even squeezing as if he could sense the nearly faded bruises that circled his wrist already.

_ Hands together, elbow up, twist. _

From the pure  _ size _ of Barca's forearm alone, it was easy to guess that the man was not giving this exercise his full strength, that in reality, it would have been harder for Pietros to get away from him if he  _ really  _ didn't want to let go. Still, it was appreciated by the smaller man.

Something small cracked in Pietros' chest as he successfully twisted away, and he had no idea what it was. Gnaeus had left a few marks on Pietros, but not all of them were visible. No one ever said that healing didn't hurt.

"Good job. Now, everyone find a partner in the room and practice before we start the next technique,"

He willed the moment not to be awkward as he stood next to Barca for a few seconds, Pietros lifted his wrist up to rub it, and he watched Spartacus wander the studio.

"I didn't hurt you, did I?"

Pietros' gaze snapped up to the man in front of him, words concerned with a deep voice.  _ Deep _ voice. He had an accent that Pietros couldn't immediately place.

"What? Oh, no, you didn't hurt me," he shook his head, caught off guard. "It's just; I wish I had known how to do this a while ago, you know what I mean?" He blurted out, eyes widening at his own admission. "Sorry,"

Barca was frowning at him now, a worried little line between his eyebrows. "You really don't need to know that. Uhm, thank you for showing me how to do the, uh, wrist thingy," 

Pietros could  _ feel _ the heat in his face as he ducked away from Barca and hurriedly walked back to his spot.

He didn't tell people about that, that wasn't something that normal people fold into conversation with outsiders, so why the hell had he just spouted a better-kept secret to a  _ STRANGER?  _ Hell, it had taken him weeks to confess to his close friends, and here he was, spouting it out to the first person that had a reasonable and sort of expected opportunity to hurt him and then  _ didn't _ .

"Hey, Pietros," Mira was suddenly next to him, her  _ 'mom look' _ in full working order. "I shouldn't have pushed you to come to the class, I'm sorry," she ran her hands up and down his arms, her touch light and warm, "we can go if you want,"

"No, no, really, I'm fine, I want to stay," he offered her the best smile he could, but it didn't take the tightness in her eyes away. "Please, Mira, I want to stay. I mean, it's not every day that I get to ogle at your beautiful boyfriend under such good lighting," he teased, hoping to turn the tone on its head.

It worked, Mira smiled, and Spartacus turned around from where he was helping someone and winked at the two of them.

He was fine, he was  _ going _ to be okay, and he wasn't about to stop until it was true.

~0~

It only took one more lesson for Pietros to actually enjoy the class, two more times for him look forward to Thursday nights and one more time after that for him to buy work out clothes.

Mira and Naevia quit almost immediately, saying they had liked it, but it wasn't for them. Pietros' third roommate, Sibyl, hadn't even entertained the idea of joining him, saying 'I am joining a convent, Pietros, not a street gang,' or something like it. She never was one for getting on board with his plans.

That's how four months came and went.

The studio was unlocked, as it was every Thursday Pietros came. He had run a few errands in town beforehand and didn't realize how early he was until he found the studio practically empty. The only people were the die-hards in the back with Crixus, each of them mercilessly beating up dummies.

_ Ah, to be filled with such rage, _ he thought to himself as he settled down on one of the mats in the other room, stretching out his back. He was never one for such hot emotions; not everyone could be contemplative, he figured.

His phone was heavy in his pocket; the message on it was somehow more oppressive.

_ I miss you. A lot has changed. Let's talk. _

Pietros had stared at the message for three full minutes, the unadulterated force of his shock was turned to the barista who was taking his order. The confusion on her face snapped him out of it.

"Sorry," he shook his head and looked back to her. "My ex just told me he missed me and we should talk," he let out a laugh that wasn't a laugh and,  _ Melanie's _ , he checked her name tag, expression melted into one of understanding.

"Good luck, buddy," she handed him his smoothie.

"Thank you," he murmured.

And now, as he sat under the slatted sun coming in from the high windows, the sun warming his legs, he wondered how much he was willing to risk to believe Gnaeus.

He wanted to believe him. He wanted to believe so  _ badly _ that it hurt his whole chest to think about it.

Were things really different? Could he actually  _ be _ different?

Movement caught Pietros' eye as he saw someone walking up to the front of the building through the only full-length window in the room. Barca hesitated by the door and slipped off one of his sandals, dumping out a small pile of New Mexico sand. Pietros could practically hear him grumbling through the door. He found that he rather enjoyed the quiet giant.

Barca's eyebrow arched impressively high when he walked in the dinging door and saw Pietros practically sprawled across the mats, and he quickly checked his watch.

"You're here early," he commented, words a little foreign in his mouth. 

"Errands. Thought I'd wait inside, where it's airconditioned,"

Barca huffed, a close cousin to laughter.

"I have lived here for two years, and I'm still not used to the sand. I can handle the heat, just not the bloody sand," he grumbled, pulling a small smile from Pietros' mouth.

"I was born in Egypt; I was made for both," though it would have been polite to stand when Barca came into the room, Pietros stayed on the floor, propped up on his hands, legs stretched out in front of him, soaking up the sun.

"You were born in Africa?"

Pietros nodded. "Moved here when I was ten,"

Barca rocked his significant body back on his heels, the closest thing to thing Pietros had seen to excitement on his face. "I was born and raised in Tunisia,"

"Really?" Pietros sat up straight; he couldn't help himself; he could feel his eyes lighting up at the mention of northern Africa. The countries were practically neighbors. "In Tunis?"

"No, Carthage, right next to the ocean,"

"That's amazing," Pietros said, tucking his legs up underneath him, still smiling. "We both grew up in some of the most historically powerful cities in Africa, and we both end up in New Mexico,"

A smile, broad and white, spread across Barca's face. "How did we end up here? I learned how to swim in the Mediterranean, and the Nile was in your backyard. The closest body of water is the Rio Grande, and it's all dried up,"

The two of them had talked, but never about this. Every other time had been playful banter, and conversations had been about technique and how sorry Barca was that Pietros had to see Spartacus and Crixus more than just during class because they were dating his roommates.

Pietros' kindergarten teacher had told his mother that he could make friends with a ceiling tile, and nothing had changed in seventeen years.

"I would love to go back home," Pietros sighed. "I never thought that I would miss the crocodiles, but I do,"

Barca huffed again. "I couldn't even sneak back home without my mother finding out, and she's hell-bent on marrying me off the next time I step foot in Carthage,"

"Oh no," this smile was impossible to fight.

"Oh no is right, she refuses to believe that I don't want anything to do with whichever poor girl she sets me up with,"

Pietros tipped his head back and laughed, Gnaeus far from his mind. "They can't all be horrible,"

"I'm sure they're lovely," Barca said dryly, his lip curling up, his eyes tracking Pietros as he laughed. "That's not the problem,"

Offhandedly wondering if the trainer owned any other clothes but the work-out variety, (skin-tight tank tops and basketball shorts), Pietros took the bait.

"Okay, then what's the problem?"

"The problem is that I came out to her when I was fourteen, and she caught me snogging the son of the only Christian priest in the  _ entire _ city. She loved me all the same but just couldn't understand that there is  _ not one single _ woman on earth that I could be attracted to. She adored every boy I ever brought home but still fully expects me to get married to a woman,"

Mouth popping open in surprise without his permission, Pietros scrambled to school his emotions. This was new; his gaydar had always been infallible; this was the first time it had failed,  _ miserably _ .

The time had passed quickly, quicker than either was ready for. People started trickling into the studio, making Barca step forward to get out of their way. Pietros promptly stood up, unfolding his long limbs as gracefully as he could manage.

Barca was still looking at him, amused as his impartial face could manage, waiting for a response.

Flicking off the dust that wasn't actually there, Pietros squared the expectant look with his own. "My mom never even bothered to try and make marriage arrangements for me, she knew from the moment I danced around in her high heels when I was four, that it wouldn't work,"

Barca's broad face split into an easy grin, showing off remarkably white teeth and crinkled his eyes.

_ Oh, dear, wasn't ready for that, _ Pietros sighed to himself, arguing with the fluttering in his stomach.

~0~

Carefully tipping his head back until it met the headrest, Pietros let out a shaky breath.

_ I miss you. A lot has changed. Let's talk. _

_ A lot has changed. _

An errant tear slipped down his cheek before he could stop it, stinging the small cut under his eye. Paramedics told him that he didn't need to go to the hospital for a black eye and a split lip, the bruising on his wrist was nothing to be worried about unless it turned harsh colors in the next forty-eight hours.

About twenty-four hours in, Pietros wondered what qualified as harsh colors.

Phone buzzing in the console, he flicked a swollen gaze to the machine, too disconnected to think.

Naevia's name popped up overtop a picture of her at her twenty-first birthday party, too small pink cowgirl hat and all.

When he reached out to grab it, the sleeve of his shirt rode up and showed off the impressive bruise in the shape of a handprint on his wrist.

"Hello?"

"Hi,"

Pietros waited until she started the conversation; he had nothing to say.

"We talked to our instructor, and he said it would be okay if Mira and Sibyl and I stayed home with you,"

"Naevia," he tried to interrupt.

"No, just listen. He said not to worry about it at all, and that we'd be perfectly fine, we can make up the trip whenever we want,"

Pinching the bridge of his nose and then biting his tongue when he realized how  _ horrifically  _ that hurt, Pietros started choking his steering wheel to death.

"You guys have been talking about this trip for months. This is your weekend getaway at the Aztec ruins. It's the biggest field trip of your undergraduate, and you're getting a tour from one of the world's leading experts in Aztec culture. You're not missing out on a literal  _ experience of a lifetime _ to stay at home and babysit me because I have a few booboos,"

"That's not the only reason we'd be staying,"

Pietros sighed.

"They haven't caught him yet, what if he comes to the apartment looking for you and you're all alone? What happens then?"

"What if they don't catch him?" he hadn't meant to snap back at one of his best friends, but he couldn't hide the coiling anger in his body. "What are we going to do if he never gets caught, or when he does, and because daddy's pockets are so deep, he gets off with a slap on the wrist?"

He sniffled back more tears.

"Naevia, I'm not going to stop living, and I'm not going to hide from him. I already ran away once, and I'm not doing it again,"

From the other end, he could hear her crying too.

A new burning snake of anger wrapped around his spine, stoking the fires of his hatred for Gnaeus.

_ A lot has changed _

_ Fuck you for making my friends cry; he _ seethed in his mind.

"We love you, Pietros," she whispered, voice heavy with tears.

"I know. I love you all too. And go on that goddamn field trip, do you understand me? I know the girls can hear me," he rubbed his nose on his sleeve, huffing a laugh when he heard the other two girls mumble about him being a smartass.

"You have to promise that you'll spend the night somewhere safe then, do you hear me?" Mira's voice floated out of the phone, a bit distorted from the speakerphone.

"I'll crash at Nasir's, or I'll drive home to mom. I'm not an idiot, guys, I'll be fine."

"Remember when you didn't know how to work a microwave when you first moved in with us?" Mira countered, voice static. "I'm finding it hard to believe the validity of that sentence,"

"I grew up without knowing what a microwave was; I'm sorry my parents never stooped low enough to buy a carcinogenic box,"

"Not everyone's mom can be a chef, Pietros," Sibyl teased.

He rolled his eyes, blissfully basking in the love that poured from the phone.

"I'll be okay, I promise. Go on that damn trip and take as many pictures as you physically can so we can sit and make fun of Naevia's blurry photos, alright? I need to go to the studio real quick because I forgot my wallet there yesterday. You all better be gone when I get back,"

"Are you sure?" Mira asked.

"Ask me that one more time and I'm personally dropping you off at the ruins myself,"

"Okay. We love you,"

"I love you all too,"

Once again, Pietros was sitting alone in his truck. The silence was a bit louder than he remembered. The girls had been amazing the night before, Naevia coming to the police station with him while he answered questions about Gnaeus and how it all happened. Then later that night, they all dogpiled on the couch and watched  _ Dirty Dancing _ all night.

Pietros figured that the only thing he had ever missed about his relationship was always going to sleep with someone else. He understood cats a little better, too; the warm comfort of being positively  _ smushed _ between other bodies had him sleeping through the night soundly.

Even though he was the one that slammed the truck's door, it still made him startle. The baby blue rusted truck that was older than him by almost a decade was his constant companion. It only had enough room to comfortably sit two people, three if you didn't have any personal space, but more than a dozen times had he fit all three roommates on the bench seat, and himself.

He patted the fender and turned to the studio, suddenly realizing that he could have had Crixus or Spartacus drop off his wallet on their practically nightly visits to the apartment.

"I am such a dumbass," he stared up at the sandy brown building and the red sign that said,  _ "Rebels! Personal trainers, self-defense, and martial arts." _

He had cringed at the thought of anyone seeing him like this, black-eyed and split lip, and this particular chore was going to lead to some sort of interaction inevitably.

"Stupid," he chastised again. Hesitating in the parking lot, he wondered how long he could go without his wallet. He was already driving illegally without his license, and the only reason he could buy the birdseed in the back of his truck was that he had credit at the stoor.

It was Friday night, and the banks were already closed, and he didn't want to drive around town to find an ATM. 

So, he sucked up all the courage he could find and walked into the studio.

He soaked up the familiarity of the building, the way it sort of always smelled like sweat and peppermint, the late afternoon sun shining through the windows, the worn floorboards under his feet.

Voices carried from deeper in the studio, setting Pietros into action. The lockers were across from the front room, and he zeroed in on his cubby.  _ 08/56/73  _ clicked into the lock; he had a nasty habit of whispering passwords out loud as he plugged them in.

The dented blue locker swung open, revealing his wallet and water bottle right where he left them the day before.

"Aha," he grunted unenthusiastically.

"Pietros," someone said behind him, "what are you doing here?"

Yelping loud enough to be embarrassed about, he whirled to find Spartacus behind him.

"Apologies, friend, I didn't wish to startle," Spartacus placated, a hand reached out benignly to show no harm.

_ Ya Allah, Mira, where did you find this guy?  _ Pietros grumbled to himself, squinting at the way he spoke.

"No worries," Pietros cringed, knowing that it was too late to sneak out now. Mira had already told him everything that happened, but that didn't mean that he wouldn't strike up a conversation with Pietros about it.

Wallet shoved in his pocket and water bottle tucked under his arm, Pietros turned to duck out of the building, but as aspected, he was stopped.

"Mira told me that you convinced her and the girls to go on their field trip,"

He shrugged. "I wasn't going to hold them back on the off chance I get lonely,"

"She also said that you'd go to Nasir's house,"

_ Oh no _ . Pietros recognized that tone.

"Problem is, we both know that Nasir is out of town visiting his brother,"

"I said I could go to my mom's too," he interjected hastily, feeling like he had to explain himself.

"But you're not, are you," it was phrased like a question, but not spoken as such.

Pietros fully turned to face Spartacus, baring the bruising and the cuts.

"My father beat my mother almost every night until he died. She promised me from the time I was born that she'd never let me feel like I had to stay in an abusive relationship, that she would make sure that I loved myself enough to know that I didn't deserve it. She knows what happened, but she doesn't need to see me or my face."

Spartacus' eyes tightened while he spoke, a grim set to his mouth.

"That doesn't mean you need to be alone,"

"I know," he reassured.

"I'd come to the apartment tonight, but I have a..." he hesitated. Pietros rolled his eyes, tamping down the small surge of uncertainty in his chest that came with knowing this particular secret. Pietros had accidentally stumbled upon the fact that Crixus and Spartacus were in an underground fight club about three months earlier, and neither Mira or Naevia knew. He had promised to keep the secret, and he didn't know why. Tonight was a perfect night for him to go to 'The Pit' because neither of the girls was home to request their company. They had kept the secret hidden because their jobs and professional fight matches occasionally found them with cracked ribs and bloodied noses, and it was a good enough excuse for the girls.

"You have an appointment," Pietros raised an eyebrow.

Spartacus scowled an expression that was immediately overshadowed when both of them heard footsteps coming from the boxing ring in the back room. Spartacus lit up with an idea.

"Hey, Barca, are you going to The Pit tonight?" Spartacus called out, a small twinkle in his eye directed at Pietros, who sighed.

Barca's deep disembodied voice floated back. "No, that fucking weasel Ashur still hasn't paid me back my bets from the last fight, I know I'd cut off his balls if I saw him there. Don't really feel like having Doctore whip me from across the room, though," 

"Bets? You know that's illegal, right?" Pietros questioned, momentarily forgetting that he wasn't a part of this conversation.

Barca's head snapped around the corner. "I thought there was no one in here," he started to scold Spartacus but relaxed when he saw that it was just Pietros.

Suddenly and vehemently deciding that he was more comfortable when the conversation was just him and Spartacus, Pietros started to shrink in on himself under the careful eye of Barca. Those sober brown eyes didn't miss a detail as he stepped into the room and stood next to Spartacus, somehow managing to make  _ him  _ look small.

"You should be at home," he said gently after a few seconds of silence.

Pietros sighed, too tired to be truly impatient. "They told you, didn't they?"

Barca nodded, and Spartacus opened his mouth to apologize, but he cut him off.

"I'm not angry; I'm really not. Better than me having to explain anyway,"

Barca tilted his head at him, such a puppy thing to do it was adorable on a man that had the body mass index of a Ford Focus.

"Where are you staying tonight?" Barca asked instead.

"At my apartment, I have a dinner date with popcorn, and I need to get caught up on Forensic Files," he knew that he wouldn't get far without being called back, but it was worth a try. He inched towards the door.

"Alone?"

"Yep,"

"What if he comes back?"

"He's not going to,"

"Are you willing to risk that?"

Pietros met his gaze fully, even though all he wanted to do was melt into the floorboards.

"I don't know,"

If Pietros hadn't stubbornly decided to hold the eye-contact and not break, he would have looked away from the heavy gaze almost as soon as it started. He doubted that Barca knew how intimidating he was, even when he wasn't trying.

"Well," Spartacus interrupted the look, using the voice of his that was impossible to argue with or refute. "That's settled then. Barca, you're not busy tonight," the look he gave him said _ 'even if you had plans, they no longer exist,' _ "and Pietros needs a friend for the night. Who better than The Beast of Carthage?" Spartacus smirked, obviously pleased with himself.

"Beast of Carthage?" Pietros asked, ignoring the soaring in his chest, quickly met with anxiety.

"My fighting name," Barca tossed a glower without venom at Spartacus.

"Creative," Pietros drawled, mind racing. Was he really going to let his self-defense trainer spend the night? More importantly, was he going to try and argue with Spartacus further about it? Barca seemed to accept the order smoothly.

"Just let me grab my bag from the back," he disappeared into the staff room.

"You know," Pietros said flatly, all the fight gone from his body. He wasn't even angry anymore. Just tired. "You should probably ask people before inviting  _ weapons of war _ into their house to spend the night," he raised his eyes to Spartacus'.

He frowned. "Would it bother you that much to have him stay?"

"No," Pietros sighed, rubbing his wrist and accidentally drawing Spartacus' eyes to the wound. 

"It's a good thing you don't tell the people in the class that it hurts to fight back. Might make them pause before doing anything," he backed up a step until he hit the lockers, shoulders suddenly tired. "Your training probably saved my life. Thank you, Spartacus."

Spartacus stared at him, mouth open, obviously never receiving this kind of feedback before.

"I'm sorry that I couldn't have helped you more,"

Pietros smiled at him, it was small and broken, and Spartacus didn't feel better for having seen it. "You got me out alive, that's all I wanted."

Barca came back into the room, backpack in hand.

"You don't want to go home and get more stuff?" Pietros questioned, glancing at the black bag.

Barca shook his head. "Everything I need is already in here," he bounced the pack, clanging the zippers together. In his other hand, he had a jacket and a helmet.

"Okay, see you later," Spartacus followed them to the door, smug his plan was working. "If you need anything, you can call, I'll be there as soon as I can,"

"You showing up half-naked and covered in someone else's blood is enough to scare off anyone," Barca joked.

"I'm serious, Pietros, anything thing at all," he ignored Barca, his nearly paternal frown making him downright lovable. Mira had told him that the second she graduates and gets the job of her dreams, they're going to have a legion of children. It would suit him perfectly.

"Okay, dad," he grumbled, earning a smile.

The pavement was cooling off under the setting sun, bathing the dingy car park in gold. It was easy to love Los Lunas when the sun was setting.

"Hey, can I throw my pack in your truck? It's a little tricky to wear riding a bike,"

Pietros turned, a dull throb in his face rebelling against the action. He nodded, scanning the tore up parking lot for a bicycle.

Barca tossed the bag in the open bed of his truck and shrugged on the leather jacket, walking to the only motorcycle, and only other vehicle, in the entire empty lot.

Oh. That sort of bike.

In the silence of his truck, Pietros had fifteen undisrupted minutes to think about how crazy his night was turning. Fifteen minutes of laughing and panicking on how horrible an idea this was, and fifteen minutes to revel in the fact that Gnaeus was wrong, people did care about him, even the people he hardly knew.

He, of course, checked his mirrors obsessively to make sure the black bike was following him. It was shockingly quiet, the motorcycle, lethal-looking and sharp but softer than he thought possible for a bike.

Just like Barca, he supposed.

~0~

Pietros stood awkwardly in the doorway as Barca walked around the yard, testing the windows. He did  _ not  _ understand why this was necessary, but Barca tiptoed around Sibyl's immaculately planted flowers and cacti, all the while insisting that he was just being thorough.

He wanted to apologize to his neighbors the second Barca's bike had rumbled in behind him up the driveway. They didn't live in a college community; they lived in a beautiful little suburb of mostly retired people, who valued the quiet.

Though the girls were still in college for the four-year experience, Pietros had received his two-year certificate, and he was happily one of the receptionists at the hospital. His amazing coworkers had told him to take off all the time he needed; they'd cover his shifts.

Pietros ducked inside, leaving the screen door unlocked and walked into the kitchen, he could see his neighbor peeking out of her window to watch Barca. He knew he'd hear from Linda soon enough.

Leaning against the sink, he took a deep breath. What could possibly go wrong with the night?

Barca's head popped up in the sink window, "Everything looks good," 

Pietros yelped.

"Sorry," he grinned, not sorry at all. There was a twig caught in his thick dreadlocks.

A quiet whistle directed his attention to the corner of the room while Barca made his way to the front door.

Crooning quietly, Pietros unlocked the cage and let the birds hop up to his arms, clinging to his shirtsleeves and resting on his shoulders. Jupiter, the fussiest, got a shoulder to himself while Juno and Minerva shared the other. Minerva, white, yellow, and red, cooed back to him in the same tone, just like when she was freshly hatched chick. Juno, blue and purple, scurried up the side of his face and started preening his hair.

Jupiter, yellow and purple, demanded all of Pietros' attention with squawking.

"This was in the back of the truck next to my bag, did you want it in the house?" Barca's voice ran through the kitchen, and Pietros turned. He held the fifty-pound sack of bird feed draped over one arm.

"Oh, just uh, put it wherever," Pietros called back, a little taken aback by him and how much space he took up in the foyer, and how he wasn't mad at the idea of getting used to seeing him in the apartment.

A new person in the house caught Jupiter's attention, fluffing up his feathers to establish dominance quickly.

"You have to behave, Jupiter," Pietros warned under his breath. He couldn't imagine going to someone's house to help them out of the kindness of his heart and then having their pet bird attack him.

Barca, not known for riveting conversation, sat at the table as Pietros made tea. He wasn't asked if he wanted tea, but it was comical to watch him wrap his giant hands around the mug, the biggest in the house, and sip quietly from it.

Neither acknowledged the birds flitting about Pietros' head. One of Pietros' biggest talents was making jovial small talk, but it didn't seem like the right moment, so he tapped down the jovial part and settled with small talk.

"Beast of Carthage," he tried the name out, catching Barca's attention. He hadn't joined 'the beast' at the table, seeing how he took up most of it and instead stayed leaning against the counter. "That means you fight in The Pit with Spartacus and Crixus, doesn't it?"

Barca nodded.

"I assume their names are just as... boastful?"

"I never asked why they have these names, but Spartacus is 'The Bringer of Rain,' and Crixus is 'The Undefeated Gual,'"

"And none of you have been caught?"

Barca's lip twitched into a smile. "The first rule of fight club is no one talks about fight club,"

Pietros rolled his eyes.

"Can't get caught if the police don't know about it,"

"It's a bit stupid; you know that, right?"

"It's a lot safer here in America than when I was fighting in Carthage; I'm not too worried,"

Knowing that whatever came out of his mouth next would be less than hospitable, Pietros hummed into his cup.

Jupiter suddenly took an interest in the mug as well, inviting himself to perch on the edge of it, peering in at the liquid.

" _ Brrrrp _ ?" he glanced up at an amused Pietros, questioning him about the drink.

"Tea, love," he said to the bird.

"Lovey love," Jupiter said back, gingerly rearranging the string on the teabag how he wanted it. "Sweet love birds,"

Barca watched the exchange, quietly smiling. "I had birds growing up, pigeons," he observed as Juno and Jupiter had a quick conversation in English. "But they never talked back to me; I have to say, that's a new one for me,"

His voice caught Jupiter's attention, and he fixed the human under his slightly unsettling eye, pupil shrinking and growing as he figured him out.

"Here here, pretty bird," Jupiter clicked his tongue at Barca and Pietros couldn't help but giggle.

"Why is he saying that to me?"

"That's why I say when I want them to come to me, he's trying to entice you to come closer," Jupiter hopped further down his arm, tilting his head at the other human.

"Oh," Barca said, rising to his feet.

Pietros made himself stay perfectly still as he came closer, the closest they had been since the first day when Spartacus used them as an example. He was somehow bigger than he remembered, chest wider, stride longer, hands bigger than his face.

It wasn't lost to Pietros that Barca was entertaining the whims of a bird to make him happy, and the thought beat soundly against his ribcage.

Barca uncurled a massive fist, fingers brushing against Pietros' wrist as he offered the bird to come closer. Pietros pretended that he wasn't hyper-focused on the point of contact, and Barca pretended that he was standing this close because he wanted to hold the bird.

Five minutes later, Barca was sitting at the table again, cautiously watching the parakeet perched on his finger.

Pietros wandered around the kitchen, knowing it was only a matter of time before he starts cooking as a stress outlet. It was a miracle that he hadn't baked eight doesn't cookies and made enough kushari for the neighbors to come knocking, plates ready.

The kitchen was small in the best way, half-gallon jars of sugar and flour lined the tops of the counter, the waffle maker, the coffee machine, Pietros' carefully tended hanging basket of herbs. Someone was always cooking, always washing dishes, always singing off-key. The cupboards were stuffed with mismatched bowls and plates, pantry overflowing with food.

Kitchens were his favorite place when he was growing, learning from his mom and grandma, listening to the laughter as his aunties and cousins rolled out Aish Baladi on the table.

He bit his lip, wondering if he could reasonably make the bread tonight, but he was too distracted by questions.

"You know," Pietros started as inoffensively as he could manage, and because he was the personification of gentle, it was pretty effective. "You really didn't need to come all the way out here on your night off,"

"I know," Barca said, slowly stroking the back of Jupiter's head with his index finger, frowning deeper when the bird preened under his touch.

"You hardly know me," Pietros set a pot of broth on the stove, clicking on the gas pilot.

"I've only been here half an hour, are you trying to get rid of me already, Pietros?" he looked away from the bird long enough to give Pietros a questioning glance.

"No," he sulked back, turning to dig in the spice cabinet.

"I've never got to, umm," Barca cleared his throat, obviously uncomfortable with talking. "I've never got to protect someone before. My sisters took care of themselves; my mom is a force to be reckoned with, all of my partners I met in some sort of martial arts ring. I've never been asked to help someone like this before," he shrugged. "I'm not good at much else but fighting,"

Pietros pursed his lips to argue, but he couldn't picture him in any other environment but fighting. Not in an office in some cubicle next to a man named Terry and reporting to HR and having a  _ boss _ .

"Well," he mustered up, but it fell back to an almost whisper, "thank you,"

Pietros phone started ringing, cutting off Barca's answer.

"Hey, mama," he tucked the phone up against his shoulder, pulling some lamb out of the refrigerator.

Barca watched him out of the corner of his eye.

"Hello, my love, how are you?"

"I'm okay, mama, you can call auntie Panya and tell her that I won't be needing 'some of the old magic' or whatever that means. Don't tell me what that means; I don't want to know,"

Barca smiled to himself.

"Who is staying with you tonight? Sibyl called and told me she and the girls were out for the night,"

_ Snitch, _ Pietros hissed to himself and glanced at Barca. "Does she call you and tattle on me often?"

"Pietros," his mother warned

"A friend," he sighed, the attempt at distracting his mother was useless.

"Ah. A friend. How descriptive, Pietros, I feel like I know them so well. Does this 'friend' have a name, or should I have learned that from the previous information?" she drawled, her accented voice dripped more sarcasm into the words. 

Pietros breathed and tipped his head back, regretting it when it pulled at his sore neck. Having never been punched in the face in his adult life, he hadn't understood how badly it would hurt his neck.

"His name is Barca," Pietros blanched when he realized he didn't know his last name. He invited a man whose last name didn't know, into his house to spend the night.

Luckily, she didn't ask for his last name, just made an appreciative noise in the back of her throat.

"And how is he qualified to protect you?" Pietros could almost hear her eyebrows rising. Since Barca was literally sitting five feet away and listening to Pietros talk to his mother about him, the flustered son put his phone on speaker mode and dumped couscous into the boiling broth.

" _ Hai Allah _ , mama, he's a trainer at that self-defense studio I was talking about, do you need his social security number too?"

She clicked her tongue. "You keep Allah's name out your mouth when you're talking to me. And it wouldn't hurt,"

Barca was openly watching Pietros cook now, not minding that Jupiter had fallen asleep in his palm.

"A trainer, hmmm? Is he cute?"

"MOM!" Pietros yelped.

"Is he in the room?"

"YES!" Pietros glanced helplessly at Barca, who was enjoying this greatly. He sort of liked the flush that spread across Pietros' cheeks.

"Is a good Muslim boy?"

"Mama, come on,"

"Can he hear me?" she didn't sound regretful with her words at all.

"Yeah, I have you on speaker mode, I'm cooking,"

She let out a hoot. "You're cooking for him? What are you making?"

"Couscous and lamb, nothing special," Pietros grumbled, wishing he had just stopped cooking for the conversation so Barca wouldn't have to hear this.

"I haven't had couscous since I left home," Barca mused aloud, deep voice rumbling across the kitchen.

"Oh, Pietros," his mother sang from the other end, "he sounds  _ so handsome! _ "

"MOM!" Pietros almost squealed, earning a chuckle from his mom and Barca. "I'm hanging up on you now,"

"Fine fine, I love you, tayir saghir,"

"I love you too, umi," he sighed back.

"Be safe, my love. Don't get hurt again; it would break my heart,"

"Okay, mom," he promised.

The second she hung up, Pietros sagged against the counter. Minerva gave a questioning chirp from her perch in the window.

"I am so sorry you had to hear all of that, I thought I could put her on speaker, even though I know better because she is so nosey. She's probably calling all of her friends right now for them to help her google you,"

"She doesn't even have my last name," Barca couldn't help but laugh at the situation. Pietros looked at him, a bit exhausted.

"She knows your first name and where you work, she's found more on less before,"

"I take it this isn't the first time she's done this?"

"Nope. This was hardly even her version of the third degree; I'm shocked she didn't try and start a conversation with you,"

"She thought I sounded handsome," he reminded Pietros.

"Right," Pietros said as flippantly as he could, ignoring the way his gut was  _ emphatically _ agreeing his mom. The lamb was slathered in spices and set on the stove, the couscous off to the side to set up.

"Are you one of those work-out crazies that only eat protein powder and eggwhites?"

Barca had wandered away from the table, looking at all of the art and pictures on the walls. He was standing at one of the collections from a hiking trip that they all went on. Jupiter was still cradled in his palms.

"Not in a long time, and especially not when someone is making couscous and lamb for a meal,"

Pietros nodded, fluffing up the couscous. He made the reasonable portions for four people as he does when the girls are home, but he figured that the little hiccup would be remedied at how much Barca could eat.

"This small dark-haired girl, who is she?"

"Our other roommate, Sibyl," he said without looking up.

"She is Christian?" in every picture; a cross hung around her modestly dressed neck.

"Yes, when she gets her bachelor's degree, she's joining a nunnery," Pietros grinned at the still ridiculous notion.

Barca blanched.

"I thought people only did that in American movies,"

"Nope," Pietros scooped the food into heaping bowls. "Not this girl, she says the only man she will ever love is Jesus Christ,"

"Then she has not been properly fucked," Barca commented.

Pietros felt his cheeks heating up at the blatant statement and coughed a little.

"Well, you're right about that, at least, I think she's only ever kissed her highschool boyfriend, and I'm assuming it was the rather chaste kind," he said to hide the fact that his face felt a little warm. It made his bruised eye throb.

Barca hummed, still scanning the pictures. He didn't say anything about the spaces that were missing photos or images that were obviously cut around someone now missing from the frame.

"Foods ready if you want some,"

~0~

An inanimate object had so thoroughly seduced Pietros before now. He had played the part of a gracious host, but now, the couch was calling his name. He remembered handing the remote control to the television to Barca before crawling into the warm hold of the floral patterned couch, piling fleece blankets on top of himself as he went, body aching from holding all of the tensions of the week.

Somewhere in his mind, he felt Barca settle at the end of the couch by his feet even though there was more seating than the overly plush old woman couch. The TV turned on; the volume dialed low.

Pietros woke with a start an hour later, dreadfully hot. He had climbed in wearing thick layers and then a small mountain of blankets after that.

The only part of him that wasn't baking was his left foot that was peeking out from under the twenty pounds of fleece.

Slowly emerging from his cave of blankets, he blinked slowly at how promptly the sun had set, throwing the room into dusk. The antique roman numeral clock on the wall read eight-fifteen PM, everything in the house hushed by the pale blue settling in from the lazy sky.

A cicada droned from the dogwood outside.

Pietros groaned and settled back on the couch, stretching out his stiff muscles, freezing when he realized that his left foot had ended up in Barca's lap. The giant didn't seem to mind because his fingers were wrapped loosely around his ankle, a bit of a ridiculous thing to see. This man, looking every inch a severe and terrifying warrior, holding onto Pietros' ankle, no doubt at some point glancing and seeing his socks decorated with corgis in sweaters.

It was so profoundly absurd that Pietros couldn't hide a smile.

"Hi," he whispered, too tired to be bashful, still hiding his face from Barca.

Some sort of National Geographic documentary was playing on the television, a British man talking about the mating cycles of the crocodile.

"Hi," he whispered back, amused.

"Sorry I fell asleep," the attempt at an apology was clipped off quickly.

"I sleep for three days straight after a fight if I can, even when I don't get my ass handed to me,"

Pietros struggled up through the blankets, not caring that he probably looked ridiculously disheveled. He blinked at Barca and tried to make a joke.

"Who says I got my ass handed to me? You don't know what Gnaeus looks like, maybe I had the upper hand the whole time,"  _ oh _ , it hurt saying his name, ripping off the scab before it had even stopped bleeding. Pietros wasn't quite ready for that feeling, the stuttering hollow feeling behind his sternum. 

The fingers at his ankle twitched.

"He's not going to show up," Barca offered, a worried crease to his brow. 

"If you were so sure of that, you wouldn't be sitting here with my feet in your lap." They both glanced down at the rumpled socks resting on Barca's thighs.

"But I'm glad Spartacus is so bossy," Pietros whispered, the hum of the night hushing down his voice. "Sometimes, anyway."

"Me too."

Breaking the silence again, Pietros grumbled to himself as he rolled over on the couch, slowly sliding off the sofa with the blankets underneath him. His back popped and crunched as he lay half on and half off the furniture, too tired to care that his sweatshirt rode up half his stomach on the slide down.

"No one told me that getting punched in the face was going to hurt the rest of my body so badly," he mumbled into the blankets.

Barca looked good in this lighting, from this angle. Thick black braids piled in a knot behind his head; profile softened in the waning twilight, a look in his eyes that made Pietros' stomach flutter for a second before he looked away.

"When I would come home black and blue from a fight, my mom would make me eat Tumeric,"

Pietros hummed. "My mom already insisted that I eat all that we have in the house,"

"I forget that we both have mothers from Africa," he smiled open-mouthed and lazy. "She told you the tale of the girl that fell in love with the lion, right?" In the impenetrable bubble of the safety of the night, he didn't try and hide the thickness of his accent, lilting and sounding like home.

Pietros couldn't help but laugh. "I haven't heard that story in years,"

"My sisters made my mother tell them that tall tale every night when we were little, and always knew I wanted to be a lion more than I wanted to be the girl,"

"Being a lion sounds like too much work, I'm more cut out for a sedentary life," Pietros joked.

Barca's eyes lazily took in Pietros' body that was still spread out on the floor, lingering on the exposed skin on his stomach and back. It was a look that Pietros wasn't too familiar with; he had never had someone look at him with such lethargic hunger before. 

Barca hummed in the back of his throat, a low rumbling sound, neither agreeing with the statement or not. 

In an attempt to ignore the heat that was wiggling in his stomach, Pietros sat up too quickly. He couldn't help the pained hiss that left his mouth, his aching shoulders scrunching up against the spasming pain his back.

"Come here," Barca said, frowning.

"I can't move," Pietros whined in Arabic, and he didn't have enough shame to hide the slight pout that appeared on his mouth. It was hard to decide if the moment became more or less fun when Barca looked at the pout.

"You are not broken, you are a big baby is all," Barca rolled his eyes and told him off in Arabic.

Pietros couldn't help but smile, finally hearing the mother tongue coming from him, sweet and baritone. Pretending to be annoyed but failing miserably, he ambled to his feet.

There wasn't much hesitation when he was finally standing; he sat where Barca beckoned to on the edge of the couch.

"The best way to get rid of sore muscles is to take an ibuprofen and go to a masseuse. But," he glanced at the clock that read well after nine pm. "I doubt anyone is open so late. So you'll have to settle for me,"

Pietros wasn't a very prideful person, he squawks when he gets scared, he laughs without moderation, and there had never been a yawn that left his mouth that wasn't loud and just on the adorable side of obnoxious. All of this means that there wasn't much holding him back from melting like butter in Barca's hands the second they settled on his back. It was harder than he thought to keep the raucous noises from escaping him, and he almost lost his mind when Barca's thumbs pressed into his low back. All of his life, he had been a feelings and touch-oriented person, always holding hands or having an arm slung around one of his roommates' shoulders, hanging off one of his other friends, perched in the lap of any trustworthy person who offered. 

Even while Barca was still touching him, Pietros was imagining excuses and strategies to have the giant pet him again and again.

The ache of his body was no match for the Beast of Carthage; the knots were pushed out with persuasive hands and nimble fingers. Pietros, though not impressive compared to people like Spartacus and Barca, was not a small person by any means. He was six foot one and nearing one hundred and seventy pounds, and he didn't mean to brag, but he had taken the self-defense commitment seriously and had been working out along with the classes. 

So it was sort of ridiculous that Barca's hands could span the entire breadth of his waist as they pressed him into the couch, working loose tense muscles and a few sighs that would have been better kept inside.

Barca's hands finally retreated from his back after effectively dissolving Pietros into the couch cushions, his touch lingering on his lower back before taking them away entirely. Pietros groaned, trying to call control back into his limbs so he could move out of his slightly embarrassing position of sprawled out across the couch.

Sitting up slowly, he stretched his arms over his head, yawn breaking into a grin when he realized how good his back felt.

"If you ever quit the whole professional badass routine, you should look into doing this for a living. I feel like jelly," he glanced over at Barca in a mockery of sly on account of his black eye.

Barca's eyes were a little heavy looking, a bit dark and locked onto Pietros'. 

Never one to break a silence he didn't have to, he let Pietros' joke hang in the air until it should have fallen stagnant, but instead, it hovered in the air around them, and if Pietros didn't know any better, he would say that  _ he _ was the reason that Barca looked the way he did, pupils blown wide and cheeks a hint flushed.

Pietros was moving before he could stop himself, and if he had the ability to tell himself to stop, he wasn't sure that he would have.

It wasn't quite the contact that the tension in the air called for, but neither would complain. Barca didn't push him away as Pietros' arms wrapped around him, one under his arm, the other around his neck. Pietros had never had the overwhelming urge to hug a tiger before, but he assumed this is what it would feel like, except that this predator was still debating on whether or not to devour him.

The very same hands smoothed over Pietros' back, pulling him closer. It was impossible to count the number of hugs he had gotten in the past few days after everything that had happened, he had three female roommates for fuck's sake, and an entire sorority that adored him. But no one that hugged him was bigger than he was, he couldn't sag into the grip of a five foot three college girl and expect her to hold him up, but he could do that right here, right now, and he did.

"I know I already thanked you for coming over here, even when you didn't have to, but I'm going to say it again because I need to," Pietros mumbled into Barca's neck where he had nuzzled his way in. It was a fraction of a movement, but he felt Barca's breath hitch in his chest.

"Thank you for staying here with me, and for protecting me," he whispered, suddenly emboldened by the timelessness indolently swirling through the New Mexico air around them. 

He lifted his head from the junction of Barca's neck and shoulder, and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth, miscalculating by a bit, he got more lip than he had bargained for but kept it chaste and quick.

~0~

"There are three open beds, are you sure you want to sleep on the couch?" Pietros raised an eyebrow. The longest couch in the house was an overstuffed reupholstered vermillion monstrosity at the end of the hallway that divided the four bedrooms.

"Two of your roommates are dating my best friends; I couldn't sleep in their beds if I wanted to. They would kill me. And I doubt that tiny Christian girl of yours would appreciate me sleeping in her bed," he grinned, a carnivorous look that made Pietros' spine erupt in shivers. He allowed himself one second to scan the man before him, taking in the lethality of his body, scarred up knuckles from hundreds of blood saturated fistfights, and hedonistic smiles that had no doubt charmed men onto their backs all over the world.

"If you say so," Pietros said, willing away the heat from his face. The joke about him offering up his own bed lived on the edge of his teeth for three exciting seconds, but he wasn't sure which he wanted more, for Barca to turn him down or agree. He slipped into his room to get more blankets for him.

"I once slept on the ground in a park in November in New York; I think your couch will suit me just fine," 

"Why where you sleeping outside?" Pietros frowned, ducking his head out the door, arms stacked with blankets

Barca was digging in his bag, and he pulled out a toothbrush. "I was drunk as hell and passed out. What you should be asking is how Gannicus didn't fall out of the tree he climbed and fell asleep in," he chuckled, low and deep.

Pietros didn't ask who Gannicus was or why he was in New York; he just set the blankets on the couch.

"Okay, if you need anything, my room is right here," he gestured tiredly at the door closest to the couch, hardly four feet away. "If you change your mind and want to sleep in a bed, pick any you want, all of their doors are unlocked,"

Barca nodded. "Good night, Pietros," he said, kind enough that it settled warmly in Pietros' spine.

"Good night, Barca,"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is something that has been rattling around my head since I watched the show a year ago, and I came up with the idea during my two-hour school bus ride every morning. Did I just give up my age? Maybe.  
> There might be more, I have more written for this, but I think if I never add onto it again, I ended it pretty cleanly. If you disagree and demand more, I'll see what I can do.  
> I've had this in my drafts for a month and I needed to post it tonight or it would have deleted. That would have been a category eight whoopsie.


	2. A little somethin' somethin'

The call of the blankets was strong, but his bladder was louder. Pietros stumbled out of his warm bed at three in the morning, almost faceplanting on the floor as he disentangled himself from the blankets.

He had closed the door but not latched it, and it swung open silently. He almost walked past Barca without noticing him, but the hallway lamp was _just_ bright enough that Pietros could see him. A lot of him. Apparently, Barca only wears pants to sleep, because he sprawled out on the tiny couch, a deeply tanned arm thrown over his eyes, shirtless. The multitude of fleece blankets Pietros offered him were either still draped over the back of the sofa or bunched around his waist. Saying it was his waist was too generous, more like his hips, the pants already draped low enough that he had to look away. Pietros didn't let himself stare for too long, but he got an eye full of the knit together muscles carved into his body with a heavy hand.

Pietros had seen Crixus and Spartacus shirtless half a dozen times, but they had never made the pit of his stomach somersault, nor did he feel the overwhelming urge to reach out and _touch_.

The steady rise and fall of Barca's abdomen was soothing, the sort of thing that belonged under the resting head of someone tangled in his arms.

Pietros' eyes widened at the intrusive thought, and he quickly walked to the bathroom, and when he came back, he hardly spared him a glance.

If he weren't so nervous at the notion, he would have been impressed with himself for already getting over Gnaeus completely, and ready for a new start with someone different. 

* * *

The sofa was too small, but it didn't matter; he had couch-surfed for two years; this was by far one of the best places he had slept because of the food and company. So, when someone knocked on the door at seven in the morning, Barca wasn't surprised that half of his body slumped off the couch onto the floor.

Without thinking, he walked to the door, not remembering to put on a shirt. If it was the son of a bitch who had hurt Pietros, he would be getting an early morning surprise of a mouthful of broken teeth.

Barca liked this crowded little apartment with knick-knacks and personality hanging from the walls and the enormous windows that let in the morning light. He also liked the idea of waking up here again. The shower was running in the bathroom, as he walked by, alerting him of Pietros' location.

He peeked through the peephole and was relieved but also a little disappointed. 

Yawning, he pulled open the door to show a tiny middle-aged white woman whose eyes were positively bugging out of her head as she took in the person before her. Barca leaned against the doorframe, rubbing his eyes.

 _Maybe putting on a shirt would have been a good idea,_ Barca thought to himself drily as she continued to gape at him.

"Good morning," he tried, voice rumbling with sleep. The woman seemed to shake herself and offered a fake smile; the sun had hardly risen.

"Good morning, are the girls or Pietros home?"

 _It is too early for this_ , Barca thought. On cue, Pietros scrambled across the house, peering over Barca's shoulder in the doorway.

"Oh, good morning Linda," he smiled, twisting himself under Barca's arm to get closer. He smelled like sage and soap.

"Hi sweetheart, I was just stopping by to check in on you,"

Barca blinked at Pietros. He was wearing a bathrobe—a _fuzzy_ robe, with little clouds on it. Barca reached out and swiped away a clump of suds from behind Pietros' ear, frowning.

Pietros batted his hand away without breaking eye contact with the woman.

"Stew heard about the accident on the news and told me all about it, and I remembered you dated that boy for a while," she tsked her tongue and shook her head. "Just thought I'd come over and see how you're doing, you know since they haven't caught him yet,"

Maybe she said some other things too, but Barca was a little too interested in how close Pietros was standing to pay attention, his wild hair sparkling with product.

"Thank you, Linda. I really appreciate it. I'm doing fine. I've got my friends to look out for me,"

She glanced at Barca without a hint of subtlety. "Can't imagine anyone getting passed him," she commented, arching an eyebrow.

Pietros turned pink and coughed, a wolfish grin spreading over Barca's face.

"No one ever has," he replied. Linda pursed her lips and turned back to Pietros.

"All right honey, if you need anything at all, and I mean anything, just hop on over or give us a call, you hear me?"

"Yes, Linda, of course, and thank you,"

"Okay then, have a great day, you two," she started across the barren street, no doubt gearing up to call all of her friends and tell them what just happened. She came for gossip, and gossip she had.

Pietros reciprocated the sentiment and then closed the door, his forehead resting against the wood, sighing long and hard.

"You're ridiculous," Pietros says incredulously, staring at the massive man before him. The words could have been taken in offense, but the small smirk of wonder at the corner of his mouth told Barca otherwise.

"I should have waited for you to open the door instead of doing it myself," Barca put together slowly, voice still rough with sleep as Pietros continued staring at him.

"No, I don't mind, but," he inhaled and picked up his head, turning to face Barca. "For the next six months, every time I see her, she's going to ask me," he lifted his voice in a high pitch imitation " _'where's that handsome friend of yours,'_ and I just don't know how I can handle that,"

"So," Barca's wolf grin started to grow again. "You think I'm handsome?"

Scoffing, Pietros rolled his eyes, hustling to the kitchen. Barca followed with no hesitation.

"I was quoting what she's inevitably going to say," 

"Right. But it wouldn't hurt to admit it though,"

"Admit what?" Pietros feigned innocence.

Barca hummed, shamelessly admiring the way Pietros' body stretched as he reached for the mug cabinet.

"If it helps, I think you're absolutely gorgeous," 

Pietros whirled. 

Barca refused to let himself get anxious about the possibly ENORMOUS mistake he could have just made. If he was a master of one thing in this lifetime, it was definitely not subtlety.

The flush on his face was visible, a prideful feat for Barca, considering how dark Pietros' skin was.

His mouth popped open, looking for the words. "You're impossible," he muttered instead, turning back to the coffee maker. Barca was still shirtless, much to Pietros' distraction.

When the blush was controlled, and his mind leveled out, he tossed a glance over his shoulder.

"I hope the couch didn't treat you too horribly,"

Barca was in the kitchen with him, leaning against the end of the counter, mindlessly playing with a carved wooden horse that was left on the counter amidst a pile of mail and the rejected contents of three girls' purses.

"It treated me fine," he frowned at the little carving. "Did Agron make this?"

"Yeah, he said his dad always made little carvings for his friends' houses, it's a German Saxon thing, apparently. No one will attack the house because the inhabitants are friends with the people _'east of the Rhine_ ' or something like that. I thought it was cute,"

Barca grunted, walking farther into the kitchen and stretched up to put the little figurine on top of the cupboards. When he settled back down on the floor, he was a lot closer than Pietros thought he'd be. He still smelled like laundry detergent and leather; his bare skin radiated warmth.

Pietros waited for himself to freeze, for his body to start fight or flight, to be intimidated by the sudden closeness by someone larger than him. He waited for his hands that were measuring out the coffee grounds to get shakey, waited for his spine to prickle and for the mental excuses to get away to flood his mind.

Nothing happened.

His mind didn't scream to duck away as Barca stayed less than three inches from him, peering at all the plants from the hanging basket, or when he shifted and brushed Pietros' arm to look out the window above the sink.

Pietros had been scared for so long. The fear started with Gnaeus' reactions, then Gnaeus' actions, then Gnaeus himself. It morphed from the monster into people that resembled the monster, their cadence, the way they walked, the way they held themselves.

Barca set off none of the alarms.

Everything about him screamed that he was a threat, a predator, someone to shrink away from like his presence would scorch the skin. 

But as his arm brushed up against Pietros' again, not an accident this time, Pietros didn't feel in danger, or hunted, or burnt.

 _Stars above_ , it was so liberating not to feel scared anymore. It wasn't just the absence of fear; it was the flutter against his ribs and something warm in his stomach that positively sang under the attention of Barca.

Pietros' hands rested on the counter, the ugly bracelet of green and blue bruises on full display. Barca's hands were rough and calloused as he slid his palm down Pietros' arm, circling the injury with his fingers. They wrapped around his wrist perfectly, ring finger and thumb overlapping as he carefully extended Pietros' arm, bringing it into the light. He didn't say a word about the ugly, mottled colors marring his skin or his nails that had been chewed ragged from stress.

Pietros remembered how big Barca's hands were from the first time he had met the giant, just as gentle as that day.

Pietros' skin hummed as Barca's fingers slipped from his wrist and slid up his palm, thumb brushing against the meat of his hand and threaded their fingers together. The morning light streaked into the kitchen, dappling Barca's face and making his eyes shine gold while he raised their twined fingers to his lips. Heart stuttering in his throat and every ounce of his awareness focused on Barca, impossibly careful lips touched the ring of purple. Pietros' breathe, he didn't even remember inhaling, left him in a shaky sigh.

The fingers of his other hand, just as warm and rough, traced the edge of Pietros' jaw, thumb pausing under his bottom lip, resting on the side of his neck.

The memory of the night before heated Pietros, how strong his hands were that kneaded his back and how smooth Barca's cheek was against his own, the feather-light kiss he put on the corner of his mouth that wasn't _really_ the corner of his mouth.

The thumb moved, the tiniest swipe over his bottom lip, and Pietros' mouth parted, a little involuntary.

Barca watched it all, pupils dilated. He didn't pounce, didn't reach out to take more, his fingers didn't tighten their hold, and he didn't devour him.

Pietros could hardly remember the first time Gnaeus kissed him. Wine and vodka soured the night into abstract shapes and slurred speech. Frat parties had never agreed with Pietros, and their first night was no different.

Gnaeus was the farthest thing from Pietros' mind as Barca repeated the movement, everything about him slow and unrushed, knuckles scarred from hundreds of fights rested harmlessly on Pietros' skin. 

One time, Pietros had watched Barca and Crixus spar. Both men were imposing; every movement Barca made was quick and furious, perfectly measured, and coldly calculated.

But none of that reflected here. He waited for Pietros to lead, to object the touch, to step forward or backward.

The curiosity from the night before was hardly satiated as Pietros laid his free hand on Barca's chest, muscles as warm and hard as he had thought, a thrill rang through his body.

Barca didn't kiss like he fought, and it was effectively melting Pietros. 

_Warm warm warm,_ warm like the sunshine that fell through the window and splashed across their faces. His lips weren't as rough as his hands, but just as persuasive. So slow it was almost infuriating, the fingers on his chin tilted his head up, his other hand was brought up and over Barca's shoulder, lazily drawing them closer, the pressure on his hand only strong enough to guide the stretch. Pietros' body buzzed, nerves tingling, and his fingers instinctively curled around the hand still in his hold. He needed to breathe, but the only thing that existed anymore was Barca's cunning mouth and the warm expanse of his chest pressed against Pietros.

Unhurriedly, Barca pulled back, letting his forehead rest against Pietros', who took a moment to suck in a lungful of air, air that smelled like Barca.

His head spun a little, and he couldn't keep the giddy smirk off his face.

"I still won't admit it, your charms don't work on me," he whispered, his voice betraying him at how breathless he sounded. 

Barca laughed, the delightful sound rumbling under Pietros' hand and through the arm draped over Barca's shoulder. Everything was still so warm and thick and sweet like honey.

He muttered something about how he might have to try harder, but Pietros was already distracted at the delicious weight of Barca leaning against him, smiles kissed off, and attentions lackadaisically pulled away the longer they stood twined in each others' hold. The morning tasted almost as sweet as Barca, the promise of a good day nearly as gentle as the tongue tracing the seam of his lips.

Pietros' phone went off, clattering loudly on the counter, startling them both.

Taking a step back, Pietros pressed the back of his hand to his mouth, unable to fight the grin that was curling his lip. Barca let him go, only allowing his fingers trail down his arm for a second. Leaning fully against the dishwasher, he watched Pietros pick up the phone and then needing to turn around when his cheeks reddened after noticing Barca watching him.

Barca smiled, a ballooning feeling in his chest demanded to be felt.

"Hello?" Pietros said as levelly as he could manage, licking his lips.

"Hey, how was your night?" Sibyl's voice floated out of the phone.

"Great, how was your first night at the ruins?"

"Nope, no deflecting, the Aztecs can wait, they haven't gone anywhere in five hundred years, they can suffer through to the end of this conversation. Where did you go last night? Your mom's?"

"No, actually, I stayed home," he could hear the growl starting in her throat, and he hurried to continue. "But I wasn't alone; I had a friend spend the night,"

"Nasir?"

"Um, no," Pietros stuttered, glancing over his shoulder at a smirking Barca.

"You don't have any other friends, Pietros," Sibyl warned.

"Excuse you; I do, he's a friend from my self-defense class, Barca."

"Oh," Sibyl paused. He could hear the other girls talking in the room.

"Wait, the huge guy that you paired with on the first day of class? Spartacus' friend?" Mira called out.

"Yeah, him,"

Two muttered seconds of deliberation passed between the three girls, and they were happy with his answer.

"Anything of note happen?" Naevia shouted, her voice warped by the connection.

"No," Pietros lied through his teeth. "Nothing exciting happened, you guys missed out on nothing but couscous and Linda being snoopy again,"

Mira's laugh was muffled. "She probably wanted to borrow a cup of sugar and get Barca's number,"

Pietros laughed with them, a vicious sort of secret pleasure curling in his stomach like a content cat. He could feel Barca's heavy eyes on the back of his head, and he could still taste him on his tongue. 

"Alright, I've got to make breakfast, I'll talk to you guys later, alright?"

"Okay, we'll call you tonight. Bye, we love you,"

"Love you all too," Pietros waited until they hung up before setting the phone down.

"Your friends really love you, don't they?" Barca said, closer to Pietros than he thought, twitching a bit at the sound of his voice.

"Yeah, we've only known each other for four years, but it feels like we were friends in our past lives,"

Barca was close enough now that the heat radiating off of his bare chest could be felt through the fleece of his bathrobe. It was a startling realization to say the least, when he remembered that he was wearing nothing but his bathrobe. He had been rushed from the shower, no time to grab anything but the robe.

He quickly sidestepped a confused Barca.

"I need to go put on clothes," he said, somehow having trouble meeting Barca's eye.

The giant hummed, no doubt thinking of how to use that to his advantage. 

Pietros met Barca's darkened eyes and felt the squirming warmth in his stomach, and he entertained the idea of walking back to him for two seconds.

 _Clothes,_ a voice that sounded suspiciously close to Sibyl's growled in his head, and he sighed.

"There's still time for that later," he grumbled, and to his complete and utter horror, he said it out loud. Barca heard, eyes widening.

"CLOTHES!" he squeaked, turning bright red, and he almost ran to his room.

Barca leaned back against the counter and blew out an unsteady breath. He hadn't bargained for this much when he had followed Pietros home, but he certainly wasn't going to complain at the turn of events. Pietros had caught and held his eye for weeks, but he had never really entertained the idea of pursuing anything.

And now, it was shockingly difficult to think of anything else. Barca licked his lips and tasted him, he inhaled and could smell him still from where he had pressed up against his chest, his fingers tingled from the softness of his skin.

There was a sharp knock at the door.

Barca idly remembered something his mom used to say about interruptions in threes as he pushed off the counter and walked to the door. He glanced through the peephole and saw a police officer and a man in a suit.

 _I really should have put on a shirt,_ he hissed to himself and opened the door.

"Hello, sorry to drop in on you so early in the morning, is Pietros Majana home?"

He absorbed the surprised looks of the officer and the other man gave him, and he refused to do anything but stand with squared shoulders in front of the door.

"Yes," he answered slowly. He had only lived here for a short time, and he had never had a face to face interaction with the American Police before. But he had also grown up a gay boy with no verbal filter and a propensity for violence in a country that disliked all three of those things, so he didn't trust the police for a second, and continued standing in the doorway.

"What is this about?"

"We'd like to talk with him a little bit more about what happened Thursday the 26th,"

Still standing in the door, he turned his head over his shoulder. "Pietros?" he called out, and two seconds later, his fuzzy head popped out of the hallway. He paled at the sight of the police.

It really wasn't any of Barca's business to listen in on the conversation he was having with the detective, so he took a few minutes to get ready in the bathroom while they talked. But, he couldn't hide in the bathroom all day either, so he found himself leaning against the flower-patterned couch in the living room while the detective and Pietros spoke in the kitchen. The officer lagged back in the living room and tried to strike up a conversation with Barca, who was too worried about Pietros to answer more than a few words at a time.

"So, how do you know Pietros?" the officer was young, he looked more equipped to play an officer on television than to be one in real life.

"I teach self-defense down at the 'Rebels' studio downtown."

"Oh, and he's one of your clients?"

"Yeah,"

"How long have you known him?

Barca paused to count back the months and stole a glance at Pietros. "I'd say about six months, give or take,"

"Did you know his ex, Gnaeus?

"No," he left the part out about how he would like nothing more than to kick him so hard in the stomach that he'd have Barca's shoe sole imprinted on his spine.

"Do you think he was hiding the abuse from you?"

"Absolutely not, we aren't close enough to talk about that sort of thing," Barca admitted, even though it tasted bitter. "He's not ashamed of it; it was just never any of my business,"

The blond-haired officer digested the words, eyes wandering over the colorful paintings on the wall and knick-knacks cluttering up shelves and tabletops. Barca seethed at the thought of _Officer Calhoun_ finding all of this as adorably charming as he did.

"Did you ask you to stay here with him because he was scared?" He didn't even look at Barca as he spoke, eyes focused on the Aztec mask hanging off the wall to his right, mouth open in a curling smile and hollow eyes that looked like they were going to swallow the officer whole.

"No. A mutual friend suggested it, and we both agreed it would be a good idea. Pietros would never ask anyone for help,"

"What does that mean?"

"Pietros will never admit that he's scared. Never. He's too stubborn for that," Try as he might, Barca couldn't keep the fondness out of his voice. The blue-eyed officer cocked his head at the giant; somehow, it wasn't clicking in his mind.

"And you stayed here, no strings attached?"

Barca bristled, and Pietros' sake only, he kept the hostility of his tone one step below caustic. "Well, he did cook for me," he growled.

"Uh-huh," Calhoun nodded, scribbling something down in his little notebook. Barca wanted to snatch it out of his hand and rip it up while he watched, but settled for clenching his fists.

"Do you have a better reason for me to stay here?" He questioned, sauteeing his words in some of his cold, dangerous Carthage warning. "I don't like seeing the people I care about bleeding and crying,"

Calhoun had the good sense to pause his writing and throw a glance at the giant that was fixing him under a glare.

"I-" he coughed into his hand. "Uh, no, I don't think that I do,"

"Barca?" Pietros called out from across the apartment, pulling Barca's attention away from the officer who he had rightfully intimidated. He walked to the kitchen, refusing the show the tension in his shoulders, and sat next to Pietros at the kitchen table.

From their corner cage, Jupiter whistled at him.

"I'm Detective Alvez from Los Lunas PD, nice to meet you," the detective, a wiry man with crinkled gray eyes stuck out his hand to Barca.

"Barca Wahasha," the man's grip was firm but quick.

"Barca Wahasha?" He raised an eyebrow, "the professional fighter?"

"Uh, yeah," Barca rubbed the back of his neck. This was not the right time to be meeting a fan, but the detective just smiled.

"I guess I don't have to be _that_ worried about your safety anymore," he joked. 

"I won't let him get hurt," Barca responded seriously, catching Pietros' honeyed eyes.

The corners of his mouth crept up in a little smile as he blushed, glancing at the wall.

Barca liked the idea of sticking around to keep his promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someday I might add to the story, but know that no matter what, they fell in love and had a beautiful and prosperous life ahead of them, like the future they were robbed of in the show. I just needed this to have a tangible end to it just in case because I don't want to be an asshole author and (maybe) never update it again.
> 
> Yes, I stole the name of Detective Alvez from Criminal minds, and a super Criminal Minds fan will recognize the officer's name from an episode of said show.  
> You should know by now that I am a MASSIVE nerd.


End file.
